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A family emergency (don’t ask) meant that The Hub was gone for the weekend. The bad news: I lost my personal chef. That’s okay. Cooking is like riding a bicycle. Well, at least if what you cook is pasta. You can’t screw up spaghetti, right?

Okay, yeah….So, the noodles had a bit of a bite to them. And I used a tad more red pepper flakes than it needed. (TONGUE ON FIRE FOR FIRST FIVE MINUTE! YOWZA!)

Now the good news: I had a night all to myself, to do whatever I pleased.

And what do women do, when left with a Saturday night to themselves? Grab a gal pal for a night on the town, right? Paint the town red….or at least a little pink? Find some dive bar out in the avenues, where the beer is cheap but cold and the wine is bad and comes in only one color–rose–

And where no one knows your name. Which, I guess is good, because when you sashay up on that bar counter with your best Coyote Ugly move, you’re going to be happy that they don’t.

That brings me to how I spent my Saturday night (which, you’ll be happy to hear, was not in traction):

Channel surfing.

Any TV executive will tell you that Saturday nights are a dead zone. When it comes to original programing, no arguments there. I would imagine, though, that any Quirky Alone who considers herself a fashionista would revel in the quantity and quality of vintage couture to be found on 900 channels in the dead cold calm of a Saturday night.

Does her heart skip a beat somewhere between the MGM lion’s growl and the credit that announces, with a flourish, “Gowns by Adrian”? Does she squeal with delight when she runs across a 1950s Hitchcock flick starring some elegant ice hot blonde in a clean-lined tight-waisted suit by Edith Head? No doubt, the dialogue in a 1960s cinema verite will be dated, but the minis are certainly groovy.

Prom nights movies are catnip to woman sitting solo on a Saturday night. Except for the movie Carrie (which will soon be remade), it’s the modern Cinderella story: mousy girl finds boy, girl loses boy to some bee-hatch, then boy discovers that the mousy girl only needed the right ball gown to transform herself into a desirable princess. I think we’d all agree that the 1980s wasn’t the best decade for fashion. But watching teen queen Molly Ringwald at the height of her career doing what she does best–breaking the hearts of best bud Jon Cryer, heartthrob Andrew McCarthy and snotty rich kid James Spader–makes you forget it was the era of Wham, shoulder pads, and high-waisted acid-washed jeans.

Not to mention that Molly felt it necessary to tear up Annie Potts’ keepsake Mad Men-era prom dress to make the rucksack eyesore she ends up wearing to the prom.

Fashion be damned. Bring on the teen angst and the Duckman miming Otis Redding!

Want to get a jump on Lorelei James’ next Rough Riders novel, Kiss and Tell? This weekend, I’ll be gifting it on pre-order, to some lucky winner from comments made below. To enter, just answer this question: What prom movie is your favorite?

A family emergency (don’t ask) meant that The Hub was gone for the weekend. The bad news: I lost my personal chef. That’s okay. Cooking is like riding a bicycle. Well, at least if what you cook is pasta. You can’t screw up spaghetti, right?

Okay, yeah….So, the noodles had a bit of a bite to them. And I used a tad more red pepper flakes than it needed. (TONGUE ON FIRE FOR FIRST FIVE MINUTE! YOWZA!)

Now the good news: I had a night all to myself, to do whatever I pleased.

And what do women do, when left with a Saturday night to themselves? Grab a gal pal for a night on the town, right? Paint the town red….or at least a little pink? Find some dive bar out in the avenues, where the beer is cheap but cold and the wine is bad and comes in only one color–rose–

And where no one knows your name. Which, I guess is good, because when you sashay up on that bar counter with your best Coyote Ugly move, you’re going to be happy that they don’t.

That brings me to how I spent my Saturday night (which, you’ll be happy to hear, was not in traction):

Channel surfing.

Any TV executive will tell you that Saturday nights are a dead zone. When it comes to original programing, no arguments there. I would imagine, though, that any Quirky Alone who considers herself a fashionista would revel in the quantity and quality of vintage couture to be found on 900 channels in the dead cold calm of a Saturday night.

Does her heart skip a beat somewhere between the MGM lion’s growl and the credit that announces, with a flourish, “Gowns by Adrian”? Does she squeal with delight when she runs across a 1950s Hitchcock flick starring some elegant ice hot blonde in a clean-lined tight-waisted suit by Edith Head? No doubt, the dialogue in a 1960s cinema verite will be dated, but the minis are certainly groovy.

Prom nights movies are catnip to woman sitting solo on a Saturday night. Except for the movie Carrie (which will soon be remade), it’s the modern Cinderella story: mousy girl finds boy, girl loses boy to some bee-hatch, then boy discovers that the mousy girl only needed the right ball gown to transform herself into a desirable princess. I think we’d all agree that the 1980s wasn’t the best decade for fashion. But watching teen queen Molly Ringwald at the height of her career doing what she does best–breaking the hearts of best bud Jon Cryer, heartthrob Andrew McCarthy and snotty rich kid James Spader–makes you forget it was the era of Wham, shoulder pads, and high-waisted acid-washed jeans.

Not to mention that Molly felt it necessary to tear up Annie Potts’ keepsake Mad Men-era prom dress to make the rucksack eyesore she ends up wearing to the prom.

Fashion be damned. Bring on the teen angst and the Duckman miming Otis Redding!

Want to get a jump on Lorelei James’ next Rough Riders novel, Kiss and Tell? This weekend, I’ll be gifting it on pre-order, to some lucky winner from comments made below. To enter, just answer this question: What prom movie is your favorite?

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Bio:

Allison Brennan

Allison Brennan is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of nearly three dozen romantic thrillers and mysteries, including the Lucy Kincaid series and the Max Revere series. She lives in Northern California with her husband, five children, and assorted pets.